The Corner




This Milky Way, our galaxy, contains

A massive hole of blackness at its core,

Where any photon striking it remains

In unreflected absence evermore,

While we perch on a speck upon a dot

Upon an arm that arcs to empty space,

Which preexisted all our prayers and thought

And long will linger after our spent race.

The ancients saw this sky-smear in the night,

And fancied milk of life, God’s guarantee.

Not we. We sense dark matter more than light,

And darker yet, increasing entropy.

The hopeless too are doomed to hope and wait,

And contemplate our origin and fate.

— Eric Chevlen

This poem appears in the Feb. 19 print issue of NR


NRO Staff — Members of the National Review Online editorial and operational teams are included under the umbrella “NR Staff.”


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